To Take Peace from the Earth
by roane
Summary: Five years before the events of "And Hell Followed With Them" (on AO3), Sergeant John Porter finds himself far from home at the end of the world. He has every reason to go back to England, but there's half a world in the way, and it's a strange new world full of new dangers. Post-apocalyptic zombie AU. Eventual crossover with Sherlock and James Bond.
1. 23 January 2008

_**AN: **__This is the start of one of four planned prequels for "And Hell Followed With Them", co-written with Kryptaria over on AO3. This one's mostly written, so expect more soon! (Also, expect more of the main story soon as well, as soon as your two authors can manage their schedules!) _

_Thanks to Kryptaria and thisprettywren for their excellent betaing and support, as always._

_Warnings: References to Suicide, Character Death, Graphic Violence_

* * *

**23 January 2008 — 40KM outside Harare, Zimbabwe**

The orphanage was as good a place to die as any.

It had been years since John Porter had thought "well, I never thought it would end up like this," so facing death in the arse-end of Zimbabwe wasn't the least surprising. He watched as Masuku prepared to take Sister Bernadette and the kids across the river to the rendezvous camp where his mission was supposed to end. Instead it would end here.

He ran down a list of what assets he had to hand and what he might need. He might have an hour before they came for him. An hour to get ready. His side ached where he'd taken a round from one of the same FN FALs he had in his hand, but he could ignore it for a little while longer.

He was about to go back into the main school building when he realised that the group wasn't leaving. Masuku said something to Sister Bernadette he couldn't quite overhear, except for "Look after those kids." His objective was clear when he came limping back towards Porter.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"You know as well as I do their best chance is if we both make a stand."

Porter shook his head with a wry smile. "I really wish I'd shot you."

Masuku shifted his weight off his injured leg. "You believe the British will let me live?"

"I thought I was paranoid."

Masuku turned and looked back at Sister Bernadette. They watched her leave with the kids in silence, until she looked back and waved. Masuku lifted his hand in farewell, then looked at Porter with a resigned sigh. "I'm Ndebele, John. I was born a warrior. My blood belongs here, in this red soil." They exchanged a glance, and Porter had a rare moment of perfect understanding with another human being. "Anyway, we have an advantage," Masuku grinned.

"What's that?"

"Tshuma needs us alive." Colonel Tshuma had been following them across the rocky terrain for over a day since they'd escaped his jail in Harare. Without either of them, the Zimbabwean government would never learn who tried to assassinate their President—which was exactly what the British government wanted.

"Great," said Porter.

The two men walked into the school to take inventory of what weapons and ammunition they had, and to prepare to make their stand.

There was an odd mixture of the practical and the ridiculous in the orphanage. There was no working phone, but running water. They gathered a cache of weapons from the bandits that had been extorting the nuns, but the only vehicle around was a rusted-out Ford in one of the tottering outbuildings; there was plenty of fuel, but no wheels on the car itself.

"Do you think someone stole the wheels?" asked Masuku with a grin.

"Fucked if I know," said Porter. He returned with a grin of his own. "You don't suppose Sister Bernadette had an RPG hidden around here somewhere, do you?"

"I think the Church is making them standard issue now," said Masuku, hoisting one of the large fuel tanks. Porter grabbed the other one and followed him, startled into a laugh.

* * *

"I'm saying, Tshuma needs me more than he needs you. Let me take point. He's less likely to kill me outright," Masuku said. They stood over the wooden kitchen table, pointing at a makeshift diagram of the orphanage.

"They also don't know for sure that you're still here," said Porter. "We station you somewhere you can flank, and we'll catch them off their guard." He had a moment to shake his head at the absurdity of the situation: he was about to face down an elite group of soldiers from the Zimbabwe National Army, side by side with the man the British government had sent him to Zimbabwe to kill in the first place. Just the two of them, both of them wounded. Porter had seen some missions take odd turns before, but so far this one was winning for sheer fucked-up absurdity.

"All right then, what are you thinking?" Masuku folded his arms and leaned a hip against the table. If his leg was hurting him, he wasn't showing it. If he'd shown any sign of weakness at all Porter would have thrown his arse bound and gagged into Sister Bernadette's broom closet and taken on Tshuma's men himself.

"Right here, where we found the Ford. Get the jump on them there, then we'll lead them back into the house. Once they're all inside..." Porter tilted his head toward the pantry.

"You better be right," Masuku said.

"Oh, I'm always right." Except when he wasn't. And then people died.

The wind rattled hot and dry through the wilting remains of Sister Bernadette's garden. The sound nearly disguised it, but there it was: the low rumble of approaching Land Rovers. Two? Three? Porter couldn't be certain, but it was fewer than he'd been expecting. The last one, though, was pulling a trailer with about two dozen soldiers. That was more like it. Except they looked like they'd already seen some action on the way in. Several of the men were already bleeding, and some uniforms were torn. Maybe they'd already run into his friends the bandits. Fine. A few more dead on both sides there would only be to the good.

He crouched behind the stone pillars of the front porch, cradling the FN FAL and waiting. As soon as the soldiers were spilling away from the vehicles he sent a burst of fire at them.

That bastard Tshuma was crouched beside the vehicle, a megaphone in one hand, Beretta 92FS in the other. Even he was bleeding from a wound on his arm. What the hell had happened to them? "John Dean! If that is your real name."

John Dean had been a diamond smuggler—for a few hours, anyway. Long enough to get Porter into Chikirubi Prison to free Masuku from Colonel Tshuma and his men.

"Why don't you just give me Masuku? Do that, and I will consider letting you live. I saw the grave you dug for him, Dean. Are you really willing to die for him now? Or is that your weakness? You have a conscience?"

Porter rolled his eyes and muttered, "Yeah, I'm all heart," and fired.

The next minutes were a blur of dust and smoke and noise, sharpened into focus one target at a time as Tshuma and his men advanced on the house. Porter heard Masuku take down the flank, then leap onto the porch beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porter saw Masuku nearly stand and break cover. He grabbed his arm and pulled him back down, but Masuku shook him off. "Look!"

"What the fuck?" Porter stared. Tshuma's men were in chaos. It looked as if they were fighting amongst themselves, but hardly anyone was using their weapons. As he watched, one of the men shot another point blank in the chest. His attacker kept coming, but was attacking with his hands, as if he'd forgotten the AK-47 slung over his back.

"Oh, Christ. Porter, look."

The colonel was being attacked by two of this men, who were... biting him. Porter stood, as no one out there had any interest in shooting at either him or Masuku anymore.

The fight was bloody and brutal. The man he'd seen shoot one of his fellow soldiers had forsaken his gun and was gnawing on the neck of a third soldier. For all the blood, there were almost no corpses lying on the ground. Even from here, he could see wounds that should have been fatal, but still the men fought on. As he watched, one of the last men still using a weapon fell to the ground and was overpowered. He was bleeding out one minute, and the next he was sitting up and joining the others.

Porter couldn't feel his fingers on the rifle as he stared out into the garden, trying to make some sort of sense of what he was seeing.

"John, what in God's name is happening?" asked Masuku.

Porter shook his head. "I don't—" One of the men in the yard looked in their direction and started walking towards the porch with slow, halting steps. Out of instinct, Porter raised the FN FAL and fired a burst into the man's chest, and Masuku followed, aiming at the next rank advancing towards them. Even though Porter saw the wound open up, saw the blood spatter, the man kept coming. Think. He glanced at one of the two corpses lying still on the ground. They had one thing in common: head trauma.

"Aim for the head!" he said, and re-aimed. The first man went down, and more importantly, stayed down. Masuku took down a second. The others never flinched, made no attempt to dive for cover, or do anything other than advance.

"Come on," Porter said, grabbing Masuku by the arm and pulling him back into the building. They positioned themselves to either side of the doorframe and took turns shooting. It was sickeningly like target practice.

"There's too many of them," Masuku said. "They're going to swarm us."

"The kitchen." The original plan was to lure the men into the house after them, where the fuel tanks were rigged to blow. All someone would need to do would be to open the kitchen door...

"Hold them back," Porter said, and jumped up. These men didn't seem likely to open any doors, but they also weren't watching where they put their feet. He rigged a quick and dirty tripwire from the kitchen door across the main entry. God only knew if fire would stop them, but at least it would slow them down.

He grabbed Masuku's forearm. "Come on. We're leaving. Now."

The first group had reached the porch steps and were climbing.

"_Now_," Porter repeated, and pulled Masuku towards the back door that would take them to the camp. They were maybe thirty metres from the building when they heard a low 'crump' and felt heat and pressure at their backs, knocking them to the ground. Porter rolled as he fell, looking back at the fireball rising into the sky.

"Do you think that did it?" asked Masuku.

"We're not sticking around to find out." They climbed to their feet and started running.

* * *

"Porter!" Layla Thompson jogged up to him as soon as he and Masuku reached the camp. "What took you so long?"

"We had to wait for company," Porter said.

Layla looked them both over, and Porter knew they were a mess, each with their own set of dirty bandages and the usual assortment of cuts and scrapes. "So I see," Layla said.

"Did Sister Bernadette make it?" asked Masuku.

Their answer came in the form of flying braids and bare feet. "The soldiers, the soldiers are back!" The girl Masuku insisted on rescuing from the bandits—Josette—collided with Masuku, throwing her arms around his waist. Masuku winced as his weight shifted to his injured leg, and Porter was just glad she hadn't grabbed him first.

Still, watching Masuku touch the girl's hair and smile at her was enough to make him wonder if Masuku was a father too. Then the girl was grabbing Porter around the waist—careful of his makeshift bandages. "Sister says thank you, Mr. Porter."

Porter detached himself carefully from the girl, a hand on her shoulder. "Go tell her I said 'you're welcome.'" Thankfully, she nodded and took off again, but not before giving Masuku a smile and a wave.

Layla said, "You're Felix Masuku."

"And you're one of the people who wanted me dead," he said.

"Not me," Layla said, extending a hand. "I'm Layla. And someone made the wrong call where you're concerned."

Masuku looked at her hand, then shook it. "Just don't expect me to trust you."

"Can we talk about who wants to kill who later?" asked Porter. "Layla, something's going on. Tshuma's men. They weren't... dying."

"We saw it too." Layla was pale beneath her tan. Porter couldn't remember ever seeing her so obviously rattled before. Rattled, but in control.

Porter and Masuku exchanged a glance. "What did you see?" Porter asked.

"Follow me," Layla said.

Inside one of the tents there was a man tied to a chair, one of the bandits, to judge by his clothes, a mishmash of cheap American sportswear and cast-off military gear. He lifted his head when they entered, and sniffed the air with a snarl, and the hair on the back of Porter's neck stood up. Porter saw at least three gunshot wounds to his chest and abdomen, still sluggishly bleeding.

"He just walked into the camp," Layla said, "and started attacking anybody who got near him." The man in the chair rolled his head from side to side, trying to reach for the soldier guarding him.

"Guns didn't work," Masuku said. "That's what we saw."

"Layla." Porter turned away from the dead man to look at her. "Did he bite anyone?"

"He tried," she started.

Porter took her by the shoulders. "But did he break skin? Listen to me. If he did, you better make another place right here next to this one."

"Bloody hell," said Layla. "I don't think so. No."

"You need to put him down, or he'll try and infect all of us."

"And how do you expect me to do that," Layla said. "You just said that guns don't work."

The man in the chair lunged forward hard enough that he nearly pitched himself to the ground. "Shoot him in the head," Porter told her. "Do it fast."

Layla looked at the soldier guarding him, and nodded. "I need to radio Collinson. Whatever's going on, we need out of here."

"All of us," Masuku said. "That includes me and the Sister and kids."

Layla met his eyes, then nodded. "I'll do what I can." She left the tent, and Porter followed her. A few seconds later, there was the report of a pistol from the tent behind them.

* * *

"We're getting reports of similar activity in Basra and Tehran. North Korea's blacked out, but Seoul is reporting rioting in the streets," Collinson said, his voice crackling over the satellite connection.

"What's happening there?" asked Porter, leaning over Layla to look at the screen.

Collinson took just a second too long to answer. "Nothing concrete. Just rumors and hysteria." Porter felt Layla tense and understood that she knew Collinson was lying as well. "Listen, John. London is fine. We're making sure families of active duty personnel are sequestered, but it's just a precaution. Diane and Lexi will be with me and the girls. I'll take care of them." He looked down at some papers that someone had handed him. "We don't want to risk sending a team out to where you are. Africa's the hardest hit by this right now. You're going to have to get out of there under your own power. We've got a team on standby in Jo-burg to debrief you and get you back home."

Layla nodded. "Yes, sir. We've still got adequate transport and fuel, if we're careful."

"Definitely be careful. Until this is under control, you're going to be on your own," said Collinson.

When they rang off, Porter snorted. "Do you really believe him?"

"Which part?" Layla stood up and closed the laptop. "That everything's fine at home or that he's ever actually planning to get us there?"

"Either," he said.

She gave him a grim smile. "I think you heard the man. We're on our own."


	2. 28 February 2008

_**AN: **__Warnings for this chapter include some graphic violence, suicide, and evidence of harm to children._

* * *

**28 February 2008 — Johannesburg, South Africa**

The lights flickered overhead and went out.

It was the fifth time it had happened in as many hours. Porter expected that at some point soon, they'd go out, and they wouldn't come back on.

They'd been trapped in a bunker for over three weeks now, waiting for a way home. The debriefing team was stuck with them as the city outside their walls was slowly going to hell. Collinson had given them excuses at first: the airspace over London had been declared a no-fly zone, their flight crews were being deployed to areas worse off than Jo-burg. Finally he'd just stopped giving them a date, and only said it would be as soon as possible. He was equally vague on the subject of Lexi and Diane, and it was driving Porter mad.

In the meantime, they had twenty-six adults and thirteen kids — if you didn't count the debrief team, and Porter didn't — crammed into a bunker space meant for thirty people, for only a week or so at most.

It had been a month.

Rations hadn't lasted long. Each day, they sent a patrol out into the city to forage for what they could. Initially, it had been easy. They were heavily armed, and most of the city's residents weren't. Risen activity was confined to a few easily avoidable districts. Plus, there'd still been some emergency aid coming from an outside world that saw Africa's outbreak as a confined, isolated problem.

When it became apparent that the outbreak was going worldwide, governments started to crumble. South Africa's had been one of the first. From then on, getting supplies was a matter of being the fastest or the strongest. Or the most ruthless.

Now, though. It didn't matter how ruthless their patrols were. There was little in the way of supplies left in the city. With Risen activity at a peak, travel in all but the brightest sunlight was nearly impossible. They were trapped, and they were about to be very hungry.

Layla had pulled aside Porter and Masuku, along with Corporal McCoy, who had been serving with Layla since she'd left the UK. Lowering her voice, she said, "We can't keep on like this. As soon as it's light enough, the four of us are going to go do one last search for supplies, then we take what we can carry and get our people and the kids the hell out of here."

"What about the debrief team?" asked Corporal McCoy.

"I don't care," Layla said. "They've been nothing but useless since we got here."

Porter exchanged a glance with Masuku, who nodded. "Yeah," said Porter. "Light should be brightest in an hour or so."

"Load up and meet at the front door," Layla said. She turned on her heel and disappeared down one of the warren of corridors. "Masuku, go tell Sister Bernadette to have the children ready to leave by first light tomorrow morning."

Porter stopped Masuku with a hand on his arm. "Listen. I don't suppose I could convince you that the kids would be safer if they stayed here?"

"To starve," came the response. "Porter, are you ever going to stop being a bloody bastard?"

Porter gave a faint smile. "It's worked out all right for me so far."

"Come on, get your gear together." Masuku cuffed him across the back of the head, half-playfully. "If I really thought you were as much of a prick as all that, I would've shot you weeks ago."

* * *

Their bunker was underneath the city proper, so an expedition only required a lift ride up several stories (and god help them when the power finally went out for good) and a walk out the front door. No one questioned their going, except to make the usual requests for impossible things like chocolate bars and toilet paper. The joke had been only sort of funny the first time, and had long since gone stale.

The Risen avoided bright sunlight, so everyone who had anywhere to go waited until then, making the city's sidewalks and streets crowded. The four of them got a wide berth thanks to their uniforms and their weapons. Some of the remnants of other military units in town were less than scrupulous about stealing from civilians. Porter and his team hadn't resorted to that, yet.

The biggest advantage they had was their weaponry though, when it came to getting into the farther reaches of the city. There were larger houses on the outskirts of the city that were largely untouched by looters, thanks to two things: the time to travel there posed a risk of being out after the sun had started to set, and once there, there was the issue of going into dark storage sheds and cellars, which were seldom unoccupied.

For this trip, they had identified an estate to the west of the city. Traveling out there was relatively quiet. The one thing the bunker had stored plenty of was petrol, so they took one of the Land Rovers. Masuku had to face down a drunk would-be looter who was determined to steal their petrol. The man wasn't deterred by the presence of four armed soldiers in the vehicle, but having a rifle waved in his face did the trick.

Once they reached the house, they swung out of the Land Rover and fell into formation without saying a word. The house was quiet; the only sound other than their footsteps was the rustle and hum of insects in the tall grass.

Masuku, who was on point, crept forward first, alert for any danger. Porter followed, and together they approached the front door of the house. After checking to see if the door was locked (it was surprising how often they found unlocked houses), Porter exchanged a nod with Masuku and slammed his heel into the door just beneath the doorknob.

The doorframe splintered and the door swung open. Masuku was in and covering the room before Porter's foot had even reached the ground.

Porter followed after him and together they cleared the ground floor. There were signs that the former occupants had possibly left in a tearing hurry: a half-empty teacup sat on the kitchen counter, and children's toys were scattered through the sitting room, covered in a thin layer of dust. Masuku looked at the toys for a moment too long, before Porter nudged him and nodded towards the stairs up to the first floor.

The bedrooms were odd. They were in casual disarray, like the downstairs, but there was no sign of hurried packing. The cupboards and drawers were all full of clothing. In one of the bedrooms, a battered and obviously well-loved stuffed horse lay on the bed as if waiting for its owner to return. Porter arched an eyebrow at Masuku, a suspicion dawning.

Keeping his voice low, Porter said, "They never left."

"Shit. The basement?"

"Yeah."

"They had _kids_, Porter."

"Yeah, it's going to be a fucking horrorshow. Let's get the others."

As soon as they opened the door to the basement they could smell it: a low, rank smell, like of an animal's den, overlaid with a faint smell of rotting meat. The four of them went down the basement stairs two by two, weapons at the ready. McCoy was in the back with a torch held over their heads as they descended into the darkness. Porter's initial impression was of a well-organized storage space — it boded well for their supply search.

A growl came from the far corner, perhaps ten metres away from the sound of it. Porter's scalp crawled. The sound was too high-pitched; it was all wrong. He thought briefly of the toys scattered upstairs and grimaced. He hated being right sometimes.

The sound was followed by a lower growl, more obviously from an adult, followed by the shuffling of feet against tile. McCoy swung the torch around and caught the adult Risen with the beam of light. It — he, once, but no longer — staggered back for a second, temporarily blinded. Masuku raised his weapon and fired. The adult Risen fell to its knees, then to the ground, sluggishly bleeding from a head wound.

The smaller one — Porter couldn't bring himself to think of it as a _child_ — growled again, but hadn't come any closer. McCoy swept the torch's light across the cellar walls until it illuminated a corner.

"Jesus," murmured Layla.

"Is that — ?" McCoy choked off his words with a loud swallow.

Porter forced himself to keep looking. Before him was the probable owner of the stuffed horse upstairs. She might have been as old as seven when the virus hit, and still had remnants of blonde hair in a ponytail. She — it, _it_, damn it — was standing in front of two corpses, one adult female, and one child. Porter had assumed the smell was coming from the Risen themselves; now he thought otherwise.

The little one growled and snarled, showing the stubs of her — its — teeth. It was clearly standing between them and the bodies. None of them raised their weapons at first, frozen in place. When Layla took a step closer, it hissed and snapped its teeth. From where he stood, Porter could see that the adult corpse had blonde hair as well.

"Sod this," Layla muttered, raised her rifle and shot it in the head. Her voice was steady. "Get some lights down here. Let's take what we can and get the hell out."

"Y-You shot her, Lieutenant," said McCoy. "That little girl."

"Shut it," growled Porter. "That wasn't a little girl, not anymore."

McCoy swallowed and nodded.

This had been a family that believed in preparedness. There was a fair supply of tinned food and dry goods in the cellar. In a matter of a few minutes, they stripped everything practical they could carry: food, batteries, soap. All in all, they were in the house less than an hour.

On the way back into town, the four of them were uncharacteristically quiet. Porter thought they were probably all thinking the same thing, and none of them wanted to talk about it.

Until they were unloading the Land Rover, that is. Corporal McCoy climbed out and held on to his door without closing it. "She was protecting her family, wasn't she? I mean, we assume they don't have any feelings, but she was trying to protect her mum."

Layla and Porter exchanged a glance. He assumed she had seen the same things he had. The corpses hadn't been... whole.

McCoy went on, "Maybe their minds aren't entirely gone, you know?" He looked so desperately hopeful, Porter wondered if he'd lost someone to the virus back home.

_Are you going to tell him, or am I?_

Layla started pulling boxes of their supplies out of the Land Rover. Porter walked around to McCoy's side of the Land Rover. "Don't start thinking they're still human," he said in a low voice. "She wasn't protecting her mum. She was protecting her _food_."

* * *

Porter couldn't sleep that night. None of them slept much these days anyway, but tonight he felt a restlessness he hadn't felt in months. They'd been still for far too long. Help wasn't coming from MI-6. Section 20, if it even still existed, was out of their reach, just as they were out of its reach. He couldn't help but wonder if it was still possible to travel back to England, and if so, how long it would take. There were thirteen thousand kilometres of unknown terrain between him and home, between him and the little girl who'd stopped believing in him years before, and the woman who'd let it happen.

He was lost in his own worry about Lexi when he heard the gunshot. His feet carried him towards the sound without a thought, his hands unholstering the SIG from his shoulder holster. He heard the children starting to cry, and Sister Bernadette trying to console them.

The shot had come from one of the communal washrooms. Perhaps it was out of a misguided sense of responsibility, a desire to make the mess easier to clean up afterwards, but either way, Porter burst through the door to find Corporal McCoy slumped against one of the tile walls, his pistol in his hand, the back of his head a red mess on the wall behind him.

"Fuck," Porter said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before re-holstering his weapon. He should have seen it coming. McCoy had been so desperate about the little girl, the Risen one. "Poor bastard." He stepped into the washroom to at least close the man's eyes.

"Shit." Layla's voice came from behind him. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, looking pale. "I should have — "

"You should have, I should have. We didn't." Porter knelt beside the body and closed McCoy's eyes. He took the service pistol from his lax fingers and popped out the magazine and checked the chamber. Gun unloaded, he pocketed the magazine and tucked the gun into the back of his trousers.

"He's not going to be the last," Layla said quietly. "I'm surprised it hasn't happened before now."

"I know," said Porter, glancing back at McCoy's body. "I know."

"It'll be light in a few hours," Layla said.

"We should go, now," Porter said suddenly. Who had McCoy lost? Did he have a daughter back home? "Let's just go. By the time we get everyone ready, it'll nearly be light." He didn't want to stay near McCoy any longer. It was the fatigue talking, he knew it was, but Porter felt like he was being invaded by the dead man's worries, by his despair, as if it were catching. All he could think about was getting home. Nothing else mattered.


	3. 12 March 2008 through 5 August 2009

_**12 March 2008 — 3KM northwest of Pienaarivier**_

They'd had nothing but trouble from the start. They'd left too early in the day, too soon after dark. They were barely to the edge of the city when they were ambushed by a horde of Risen. It was fast and brutal. All of the Risen they'd seen in the city were slow-moving and showed no signs of being able to strategise or plan. The ones that hit them that morning were recent victims of the virus, and still had most of their physical and mental faculties intact.

Twenty-six adults and thirteen kids had set out from the camp in Zimbabwe. Ten adults and eleven kids made it out of Johannesburg alive. Layla was nearly one of the victims. As they were making their escape, one of the Risen had managed to grab her by her braid and had nearly pulled her out of the Land Rover. It had taken three of them to get her loose.

A week later, there was a mishap with their drinking water, and dysentery hit the group. Sister Bernadette and the youngest of the kids, a five year old boy, never recovered. Everyone was in shock for days afterwards; the strain caused tempers to flare and nerves to fray. But through it all, Layla was calm and in control.

A few nights after, Porter found her on the outskirts of the camp, away from everyone else. She was sitting huddled under a tree, knife in hand, sawing at a length of her blonde hair. He tried not to startle her, but she still jumped and brandished the knife at him before realising who it was. Pieces of her hair lay scattered around her like wheat.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Layla just looked at him, dry-eyed. Her face had a shocky, staring quality that he didn't like at all. "It's in the way," she said. "In the last fight, it nearly — I nearly—"

"It's all right," he said, approaching carefully with his hands open. "We'll fix it." He knelt next to her and took the knife from her hand. Instead, he retrieved a pair of scissors from one of the medkits.

He sat down in front of her and gave her the option of turning around, instead of sitting behind her. Layla stared at him for a few minutes, then turned around.

"Okay, I'm going to start cutting," he said, and waited for her nod. As he picked up a lock of hair, he snorted. "Bet this is the first time you've had a sergeant cut your hair instead of some posh twat."

"Yeah." He almost couldn't hear her.

"How the hell did you wind up in the army anyway, much less MI-6? Were you running away from a rich boy your parents wanted you to marry?" Porter kept his tone light, trying to goad just a little.

"Go to hell," Layla said, a little more life in her voice. "My dad was Regiment same as you, which I bet is more than you can say."

"True," Porter said, trying to even up the worst of the knife-cuts. "My da' was a drunk bastard. Yours want you to follow in his footsteps?"

"He wanted a boy," Layla said, without bitterness. "He got three girls."

"You're the baby, aren't you?" He shook his arms to clear away the strands of hair that covered them.

"Yeah." She didn't say anything else right away, and Porter was about to ask something else to keep her talking. Before he could, she said, "I wanted to join up." She was starting to sound more like herself.

Porter finished up with her hair and said, "I'd say it's damned lucky for us that you did." It wasn't the most stylish of haircuts, but at least it didn't look like she'd been hacking at it with a field knife. "There," he said. "Better?" He put away the scissors and held on to the knife.

Layla reached back and patted at her short hair, ruffling it with her fingers. "Yeah," she said, then added quietly, "thanks, Porter."

The next morning, she was back to normal, joking with Masuku, elbowing him when he gave her shit about her hair. "I fancied a change," she said.

As they were loading the Land Rovers (which were going to be useless very soon unless they found another store of petrol somewhere), she passed Porter and gave him a squeeze on the arm — the only acknowledgement that anything had happened at all.

A few nights after that, she shown up in his tent. They were fast and rough with each other, angry and needy. Just the one time, and they never spoke about it after that.

That night with the knife was the only time he'd seen her even come close to breaking, through this entire catastrophe, and they'd seen things that had made lesser men lie down and die, like McCoy.

She was definitely tougher than he'd given her credit for.

_**22 September 2008 — Lake Lusiwasi, Zambia**_

"Why do you have to go?" Josette wasn't crying, not yet — none of the kids cried much anymore. The others, the few that were left, were splashing in the shallows of the lake while the Sisters looked on. Porter heard one of the younger ones laugh — something else there hadn't been much of in months.

Masuku knelt down beside her and took one of her hands. Since Sister Bernadette's death, Josette had hardly let either of the men out of her sight for a moment. But the truth was, they couldn't take care of the remaining children anymore. Their rations were running near depletion all the time, even though there were just a handful of adults and children left.

When they started hearing rumors of a functioning orphanage in the former nature reserves of Zambia, it sounded too good to be true. Layla had insisted they check it out. For three days, they'd monitored the small village and had seen only happy, reasonably well-fed children and the half-dozen nuns who took care of them. She made the call to leave the kids here, and Porter agreed.

They'd had no news from Collinson or anyone else from Section 20 since May. The last Porter had heard, Diane was dead, killed by Risen. Lexi, Collinson told him, was completely safe and missed him terribly — so Porter knew he was lying. Lexi would never say she missed him. He knew he should feel something about the fact that his ex-wife, the mother of his daughter, was dead, but he just didn't. He couldn't, not yet.

Porter half-listened to Masuku consoling the girl Josette. How she'd be safer here. How he'd come back when he could — surely she was old enough to know better than to believe that. Of the nine remaining adults, five of them, Layla included, were in favour of finding a safe place to hunker down until the worst had passed. The other four, Porter included, just wanted to get back home.

That no one had deserted or seriously tried to challenge Layla's authority yet had shocked Porter, frankly. She was the only woman now that Sister Bernadette was dead, and she was in charge. The chain of command was still holding, for now. She was careful to ask for advice from the remaining NCOs — him included — and to take it from time to time.

He watched her talking to Sister Marianne, making the arrangements no doubt, and offering to leave what few supplies they could to help take care of the children. When Layla spotted him looking at her, she nodded. After the night in his tent, he'd wondered if anything would change between them. It hadn't.

"Mr Porter?" There was a tug at his sleeve. He looked to see Josette there. Christ, she was so young. It was hard not compare to her Lexi. Lexi was a few years older, but Josette had seen so much more, lived through so much more (_you don't know if that's true anymore_). He forced himself to smile at her. "I just wanted to say thank you," she said. "I know... what you did. For me." Porter kept the same bland smile on his face, not wanting to tell her that rescuing her from her would-be rapist had been all Masuku's doing, and it had started most of the trouble. "God bless you, Mr. Porter." Then she threw her arms around his waist and hugged him hard. He hesitated, caught off-guard, then patted her back.

"You do what the Sisters tell you," he said.

"I will. I promise." She let go of him and ran to join the other children, looking back to give him a wave.

_**5 August 2009 — el-Doweiqa, Outskirts of Cairo, Egypt**_

It was ironic, but not surprising, that places like el-Doweiqa fared better than the more well-to-do parts of the city. When the power grids failed for the last time, life didn't change much for the people who'd never had electricity or running water. While the upper floors of the skyscrapers and council flats in downtown Cairo were all but uninhabited these days, el-Doweiqa was still a relatively thriving settlement.

Porter, Masuku, and Layla were all that was left from the original group that had left Zimbabwe over a year and a half before. One by one, the others had deserted, committed suicide, or died by misadventure or Risen attacks. It had been a horrific year. Thank God, Masuku said on a regular basis, they had left the children with the Sisters.

Porter was fairly certain God had nothing to do with any of this mess. If there was a God, he'd turned his face from the nightmare the world had become.

He'd left Layla and Masuku to negotiate a place for them to stay, while he scouted to see if there were any supplies available. Porter doubted he'd find anything in el-Doweiqa, but more likely in the city proper, where he'd heard rumours of a marketplace. There were still a few hours of daylight yet, so he headed towards the city.

The bridges across the Nile were all patrolled by what remained of the Cairo police, taking bribes and levying 'fines' against people trying to cross, so there was a brisk ferry business. Even alone, Porter was armed enough and intimidating enough to make any potential trouble look the other way.

An old man agreed to take him, despite the afternoon calls to prayer echoing over the city. The river was cleaner than he remembered, but then again, there'd been no real industry for over a year now. The boat bumped against the bottom, and the old man hopped out and hauled it in close enough for Porter to get out. Porter paid him with two bars of soap, nearly impossible to find these days, and climbed up the bank.

The marketplace wasn't difficult to find. The noise alone led him to Tahrir Square. There were stalls everywhere — what were so many people finding to barter? The smells of unwashed people and cooking food mingled in the air, along with an underlying stink of fear. There was no sign that there was any Risen activity within the city, but it was still too bright out to be certain.

He found someone selling Egyptian Army MREs, and bartered for as many as he could afford, loading his pack down. They would keep the three of them fed for several weeks.

Nearby, the area attracting the most attention was where the slavers were doing business. Human trafficking had exploded throughout the African continent. They'd seen it everywhere they'd gone. At first, when there were enough of them, they'd stepped in and stopped it where they could, freeing men, women, and children and killing the slavers. But now that they were down to three, they'd had to start turning a blind eye.

Porter was drawn to the stalls though, to the rows of chained people. It was hard to fathom that anyone had enough food or supplies to acquire a slave, much less keep one alive, but there was buying and selling going on. While Porter watched, a tall middle-aged man with a scarred face led away a young girl, surely no more than thirteen, definitely prepubescent. She looked back at some of the other children who were left behind, and Porter got a good look at her face.

It was Josette. He was certain of it. She had a bruise down the side of her face, but otherwise looked fairly healthy. She would be; she had value. Porter felt sick. He heard one of the other children call Josette's name, and he made himself look at the other children that were chained up. He knew almost every single face.

_Fucking hell._ All of them. How was that even possible? His first instinct was to turn away. He had the supplies they needed; he just needed to cross the river and it'd be done. He didn't have to tell Layla and Masuku. It was better that they didn't know. This wasn't their fight anymore. It wasn't their problem. Their only job was to survive now. He didn't have to tell them anything. Porter turned away.

Then he remembered the chorus of voices that prayed every night before they got to Lake Lusiwasi, even after Sister Bernadette died. _God bless and keep Mr. Porter and may the angels watch over him._

They should have prayed for themselves.

"Fuck," Porter growled, and turned around.


	4. 5 August 2009 - 6 August 2009

It was a matter of moments to find a good observation point. Porter found a bombed-out building and settled into the doorway, drawing a scarf out of his pack and arranging it around his head and face. There were enough men in pseudo-military gear about that he blended in fairly well.

And he waited. Layla and Masuku would worry, but there was nothing for it.

The sun was nearly going down when the slavers packed up their bartered goods and prepared to leave for the night. There were two more sales before the end of the day, neither of them children. None of the slaves had been fed during the afternoon, but the slavers were careful to keep giving them water. A fainting slave wouldn't fetch a good price.

A half-dozen armed men rounded up the slaves, checking everyone's shackles before marching them out of the square and down the street.

Porter rose to his feet, wincing at the pop of his knees. He followed at a distance, looking left and right and up for landmarks so he could find his way later. The cautious way people were hurrying for shelter around him told him what he needed to know. Risen activity would be high once it got dark.

The slavers had set up camp in one of the city's walled compounds. The compounds used to be home to the wealthiest of Cairo's residents, but these days belonged to whomever could take them and keep them. Getting in would be a bitch. Getting out with a dozen children - the three of them would likely have to kill every single man in the compound.

He'd seen what he needed to see. And it was getting dark. He had to get back to el-Doweiqa, and quickly.

Back at the river's edge, he found a ferryman who spoke pidgin English, and talked him into making one last trip for the night, paying him with two of the MREs.

Layla and Masuku had bartered for space in a shanty near the edge of the settlement. It was better than their tents, marginally. They could at least have a fire, which meant a hot meal for the first time in weeks.

"Where the hell have you been?" asked Layla when Porter stepped in.

"It's a big city," Porter said. "The bridges are all guarded and I didn't feel like paying a bribe. Was worth it though." He opened his pack and started redistributing the supplies. He didn't say anything about the kids. Not yet.

Later, as they were eating, Masuku started telling Porter about their encounter with their host. There'd been language difficulties, and there wasn't much they had left to barter that the man wanted.

"I'm surprised our host didn't ask for you as payment," Masuku said to Layla. "Fancy being a third wife?"

"Piss off," Layla said, but she smiled. "I'd hold out for second, at least."

"Right, no point in selling yourself short. You're almost a cook and everything," Masuku said, holding up one of the MREs. "It's not even a little burned."

Layla shoved him with her foot, then turned to Porter. "How do things look in the city? Any point in us sticking around for a bit?"

Porter swallowed a mouthful of fava beans. "It seemed pretty peaceful, but there's signs of Risen activity. The marketplace is active. Someone around here has plenty to bargain with."

"Any indication that the Egyptian government is still functional?" asked Masuku.

Porter shrugged. "Not other than the policemen on the bridges, but they may be freelancing. I didn't see any other official activity." He glanced up to see Layla studying him, and turned his attention to dinner.

"Porter?" Her voice was soft. "What did you see?"

Damn it. Damn it to hell. "Maybe nothing."

"What?"

Porter sat down his half-eaten MRE and ran his hand over his scalp. "Slavers. In the marketplace."

"You had to expect that, if the market's that big," Masuku said.

"Porter?"

He knew how this was going to go. He was going to tell them, and then they'd wind up trying to save all of the kids. And then what? They were in an even worse situation to care for a bunch of kids now than they were before. Fuck it, it wasn't his call anymore. "I saw the kids."

"Kids?" asked Layla.

"The kids, the kids from the bloody orphanage. I saw Josette." He couldn't make himself look at Masuku.

"No," said Masuku. "You were wrong. We left them safe."

"Sorry, mate. It was her."

"We left them in fucking Zambia," Masuku insisted.

"We got here from fucking Zambia," Porter said.

"How many were there?" Layla was all business.

"I saw a half a dozen," Porter said. "They'll have more in their compound."

"You know where the compound is, don't you," Layla said.

Porter sighed. "I followed them, yes."

"So you can take us right to them," Masuku said.

"Did you miss the part where I said that the city would be crawling with Risen?"

"Did you miss the part where someone's selling our kids?" Layla said.

"They're not ours, they're not anybody's," Porter said.

"All the more reason for us to go after them," said Masuku, his voice steady and resolute.

"And what are we going to do with them once we have them?" Porter asked. "We can't keep ourselves in supplies, how the hell are we going to do it with a dozen kids on our backs?"

"Porter, we can't just leave them," Layla said. "You know what these men are like. And you know what people buy slaves for, especially children."

"At least they won't starve to death," Porter said.

Layla stood up and dusted off her trousers. "We're going, tonight. End of discussion. We'll worry about what to do with the children once they're safe."

Porter looked between Layla and Masuku and knew he was outvoted. "Shit," he said, and stood up, gathering his weapons.

Once they were suited up, they walked out of their shelter. The alleys - they couldn't properly be called streets - of el-Doweiqa were nearly deserted, although there was no sign of Risen. As they walked toward the Nile, they could hear laughter and music floating over the settlement and smell cooking fires.

The river was dark and quiet. All the ferrymen and their boats were long gone. The bridge was empty. That, to Porter, was the most ominous thing of all. It signalled that no one travelled at night, ever.

Across the river there was movement among the ruins. It wasn't human movement. "All right," Porter murmured, "how are we going to do this? Either of you have any brilliant ideas?" They didn't have the ammo to waste, and gunfire would only bring more attention down on them.

Masuku pointed at one of the buildings. "There. If we can sneak past the few at the water's edge, we can climb up there and probably get pretty far on rooftop." He wasn't wrong. Even before the end of the world, Cairo was a city of half-finished construction, with piles of trash and rubble between. As far as they knew, Risen didn't climb anything more than a few steps.

Layla had her night vision binoculars out and was scanning the city across the river. Porter had forgotten that she had them; they were seldom needed, and they conserved anything that used a battery for life or death situations. He supposed this counted. "We can cross the bridge and if we jog right instead of left, we'll miss the worst of the Risen," she said. "Your building's not far to the right there, Felix." She looked at the two of them. "Let's go."

They crossed the bridge in a crouched run, the only sound that of their boots crunching in the gravel and dirt that covered everything. Porter brought up the rear, his head lifted to scan the shoreline ahead of them for any Risen. So far the way was clear.

That changed as soon as their feet touched the shoreline. Porter had never figured out what it was that alerted Risen to the presence of living humans, but he suspected it was scent. Whatever it was, as soon as they broke cover, Risen started coming around corners and out of alleyways.

"Run," Porter whispered harshly. "They're on us."

The three of them gave up pretence of stealth and started running full tilt for the building Masuku had spotted from across the river. Layla got there first, and shouldered her weapon to start climbing up the half-finished building. The material was crumbling from a year's worth of exposure to the elements, and she lost her footing twice. Porter and Masuku could only watch from the ground - Masuku keeping an eye on Layla as she climbed, Porter keeping an eye on the ever-approaching horde of Risen.

It wasn't like the movies. Risen didn't generally shamble, not even the ones that were nearly falling apart. They walked. Sometimes they stumbled, sometimes they ran. They were faster than undead beings had any right to be.

Layla made it to the top, then leaned down to give Masuku a hand up.

"Getting a little crowded down here," Porter said. "Might want to hurry." He aimed his FN FAL at the approaching Risen, although he wouldn't fire unless he absolutely had to. A few of them had dim memories of firearms: arms covered in sagging, crepey skin flew up to protect grey faces. But still they kept coming on as a group. They were maybe fifteen metres off, and Masuku was only halfway up the building.

Porter looked up, then looked at the approaching Risen. "Fuck," he said, and started climbing. The bricks allowed for plenty of hand- and toe-holds, but only about half of them would support his weight. He scrambled up about a quarter of the way and heard Masuku shout from above, "They're closing in."

"Thanks, I never would have guessed," Porter muttered, and reached for the next handhold. He shoved his toes into a crack in the bricks and pushed against it to test its strength. It held, so he pulled himself up the next metre or so. He could hear snarling from the street below and worked faster.

A rope dangled in front of his face, and he looked up to see Masuku and Layla holding the other end. Porter grabbed it, but before he could start to climb, a hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled. Rope slipped through his hands, the fibres scraping and burning his palms and fingers. He tightened his hands against the pain and kicked viciously down with both feet.

There was a thud and a crunch as he connected, but the hand around his ankle didn't loosen. Worse, he could see a few of the more substantial Risen trying to work their own hands and feet into the ridges, trying to figure out how to climb.

"John!" If Layla was calling him that, it was serious. He looked up to see her aiming her rifle just over his head. All he could do was cling to the rope and try to flatten himself against the damaged wall as much as possible - and pray Layla's aim was as accurate as always.

There was a sharp report from the FN FAL, and the hand around his ankle fell away. Porter didn't look down, didn't pause for a breath, but started scrabbling up the rope hand-over-hand, using his feet for leverage against the wall. When he was a metre or so from the top Masuku reached down to help haul him over the ledge. Layla held her position, rifle aimed at the Risen at the base of the building. They still possessed a tiny bit of self-preservation - Porter's theory was that their brains hadn't entirely started liquefying in their skulls - and had stopped trying to climb up.

After a few moments of stand-off, they started drifting off in search of easier prey. Or else they forgot that prey stood watching a little bit over their heads. It wasn't clear which.

Porter leaned against the ledge, trying to catch his breath. All he could focus on was the stinging rope burn on his hands, a small but thoroughly maddening pain. He lurched to his feet. "Come on. We need to keep moving."


	5. 6 August 2009

Within an hour they were looking over the ledge of another building into the courtyard of the brightly-lit slavers' compound. It was made up of three main buildings: the house (once large and elegant, now large, elegant, and strung with floodlights), a long, low building with very few windows (once possibly servants' quarters, now Porter would bet most of his MREs that they were a slave dormitory), and a large tin shed (once a garage, maybe, now clearly a centre of operations for the guards).

"How the hell are they getting electricity?" asked Layla. She scanned the area with her binoculars, the night-vision component clearly not needed right now.

"Generators," ventured Masuku, "although that raises the question of where they're getting the petrol."

"It's quiet," said Layla, lowering the binoculars. "Underground generators?"

Porter checked the ammo on his rifle. "Place like this would've had safeguards and back-ups piled on top of each other." He smiled thinly. "Perfect place to hole up at the end of the world."

Masuku took the binoculars from Layla and scanned the buildings. "They're not guarding the perimeter as tightly as they should. Suggests there's maybe video surveillance."

"Makes sense," Layla said. "If they've got power, why not use it?"

"They're not worried about resources," Masuku said.

"They're doing well," Porter said dryly.

"I count half a dozen on the perimeter," Layla said. "Armed to the bloody teeth."

"Can we get in over the fence from above?" asked Porter, settling into a crouch.

"There," said Masuku, pointing at the far end of the compound. An enormous sycamore tree spread its overgrown branches over both sides of the wall. Better, their rooftop route would take them right to the base of the tree. "Someone's overconfident."

"Or spread too thin," Layla said, "or just careless." She watched the compound for a moment. "Guards first, then we find the kids."

"And the rest of the slavers?" That was Masuku.

Layla glanced up and gave him the grimmest smile Porter had ever seen from her. "Can't imagine they'll let us go without a fight. Pity. Let's go."

The sycamore was broad with peeling bark. The lowest branches were easy enough for Porter to jump and grab. He dropped down and offered a boost to Layla who was a good six inches shorter than he was. Once she'd secured a branch, he followed her. The three of them managed to climb in relative quiet, only the occasional whisper of bark peeling away to fall to the ground or the rustle of leaves.

One thick branch stretched out across the wall into the compound. It looked sturdy enough for at least one of them at a time. They'd find out one way or another. Layla went first, as the smallest of them. The branch wavered a little under her weight, and nothing more. She stretched out on her belly, checking for guards. Then in a quicksilver movement, she rolled over and down, landing carefully on her feet like a cat before ducking back into the deeper shadows against the wall. Porter followed, only because Masuku refused to go next, and landed in a crouch beneath the tree.

Before Masuku could make the jump, Layla gave a quiet 'hsst' and lifted her hand, dipping it once. A guard coming. She and Porter flattened themselves against the wall and waited to see if the man's path would bring him their way. He paused, gave a report in Arabic-Porter knew just enough to understand the word 'clear'-then headed in their direction. He exchanged a glance with Layla, who nodded. Porter sidled away from her down the wall into deeper darkness. The guard passed him just in time for Layla to step out into his line of sight, her weapon down and her hands up. She stumbled forward with her head down. "La tetleqwa alenar ley, la tetleqwa alenar ley!"

The guard was too startled to immediately react to the sight of a strange unveiled woman in his compound, giving Porter just long enough to get behind him and quietly slip the knife from his boot between the man's ribs. He sagged against Porter without making a sound, and Porter lowered him to the ground. Masuku dropped out of the tree in a hurry and landed with a hiss.

"We've got about ten minutes before they figure out what happened," Layla said. "Come on."

Porter pushed the dead guard into the shadows, stripping the man of his weapons and dividing them between the three of them. Masuku followed along with a halting footstep. When Porter raised an eyebrow at him, he shook his head. "S'fine. Bad landing."

They walked the perimeter and managed to take down two more of the six guards before any signs of detection. Then, perhaps missing out on an all-clear signal, four men with AK-47s burst out of the tin side-building, shouting in Arabic. Porter ducked behind a battered Land Rover, while Layla and Masuku also dove for cover. A burst of fire from their end, and all four guards went down. Porter and Masuku would argue later over which of them got the fourth guard.

The compound erupted into chaos. Porter counted ten men rushing from the main building, and three more from the guard post. Porter signalled to Layla, gesturing at the main house, then pointed at her, then at the presumptive slave dormitory: I'll clear the main house. You and Masuku get the kids. Layla nodded. The two of them laid down covering fire while Porter broke and sprinted for the building. He heard the whistling of bullets flying past him, and felt one of them part his hair. He ducked and gave a burst of speed. He felt on fire, clean somehow. It was the first straightforward fight since this whole nightmare began, against an enemy he could understand.

He rounded the house to look for a back entrance, an open window, anything. At first he heard pursuers, then with each burst of gunfire from his team, the footsteps stopped. There was, of all the fucking ridiculous things, a set of French doors overlooking the ruins of the back garden in which Porter stood. He rolled his eyes and walked towards the darkened windows. The room inside was empty. One solid kick and the doors flew open. He doubted the noise would be noticed amidst the shouting and gunfire from the front of the house, but he crept in cautiously anyway. From the outside layout of the house, he could hazard a guess as to the interior rooms. He moved in a clockwise circle around the house, but the rooms were empty. The house was predictably opulent, although the furnishings in several of the rooms were still covered in white dust covers gone grey with desert grit.

In the kitchen, the table was littered with dirty glasses and filled ashtrays, some with cigarettes still burning. Porter checked the room for additional weapons caches and ammunition, and sure enough, tucked among the canned goods he found a few cheaply-made fards knocked together by local blacksmiths out of whatever material was available, but also some ammunition for the shotgun Layla carried. His pack was already getting crowded, but he took the ammo anyway. The fards he left-they were as likely to kill their wielder as their target.

There seemed to be no basement, which worried him. There had to be an underground bunker somewhere in a compound like this, but if the entrance was from the main house, it was too well hidden for him to find it in a short sweep. Off the kitchen was a back staircase that led up to the first story. Porter pressed his back against the wall and started climbing, rifle aimed and ready. The upstairs was brightly lit, in comparison to the darkened, empty downstairs. There were no dust covers in any of the rooms up here. Clearly, this was where the master lived.

As if to confirm the thought, Porter heard a man muttering in Arabic. The echo in the hallway made it difficult to determine where it was coming from at first, but Porter tracked it to the last room at the end of the hall-the main suite, no doubt. He crept to the door and pressed his ear against it. He heard the man more clearly. From the crackling pauses in his conversation, Porter guessed he was talking into a radio. The responses were too faint for him to hear. There were no other voices, but he could hear the sound of someone else moving around. They weren't the clear, firm footsteps he would expect from another guard. Porter couldn't fathom a grasp of tactics so poor as to leave the general-so to speak-completely unprotected, but then again, most of the men forming their own militias these days had never been military themselves, but acted only out of a desire to have their own private armies of men willing to kill or die for a sure place to sleep and semi-regular meals.

There was nothing for it but to go in and see what he was up against.

A quick examination of the door showed that this one, at least, offered the room's occupants a bit more protection than the French doors downstairs had. Reinforced hinges, a fairly solid looking lock. Porter looked for a weakness, and decided the lock was probably it. Two solid kicks above the strike plate popped the lock and had the door swinging into the room. Porter burst in and did a quick sweep. A rabbity looking Egyptian man stood near the foot of an excessively large bed dressed in his pants and a pair of socks. There was a walkie-talkie in his hand. Sitting on the edge of the bed was a young girl, possibly as old as sixteen, if Porter were inclined to be charitable. She wore nothing at all, and that her first reaction was not to cover herself spoke volumes about her likely role in the household. She had a blank-eyed stare that he associated with people who were either near shock or catastrophically stoned. There were no obvious signs of drugs paraphernalia, so Porter went with the former.

"Drop the radio," he ordered, and pointed. "And put your hands on your head."

He did as he was told. "Listen," the man said, in heavily accented English, "I make you and your friends rich."

Porter didn't lower his weapon, but he smiled, all teeth. "Can you."

"You fight good," he said. "You fight for me. I give you food, girls. Pretty girls. Can bring English girls, yes?"

There was a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of Porter's gut, but he kept smiling-and kept the gun pointed at the man's head. "Really, all that way?"

"We trade," the slaver said, gesturing. "Everywhere. Pretty girls from England come here, pretty girls from here go to America. Big business."

Christ. The man wasn't talking about local trade, or even trade within the African continent. The man was talking about a global slave trade, on a scale Porter didn't think was possible in this brave new world of infrastructure failure. "What if I wanted to go to England?" he asked. "Work for someone there?"

The man grinned slyly, certain he'd hooked his fish. "The man there, he likes his English. You fight good for me, he might take you."

"What's his name?" It was a shot in the dark, but this man might just be arrogant and stupid enough to talk. "I might know him already."

"No no no," the slaver said. "Weapon down. Girl bring tea, we talk."

Porter cocked the gun. "You're done with the girl. With all of them. They're coming with us and going home."

The man looked at the girl and said something-Porter thought he recognised the word for 'home' in the middle of it. The girl started screaming back at him, and crying. She grabbed something up from the nightstand and charged at Porter with her arm upraised. It took a split second to realise that she was wielding a knife.

Porter shouted at her to stop, and when she didn't, he fired. It was instinct, nothing but that.

The girl crumpled, bleeding from the wound in her chest. Instinct kept Porter on his feet and moving. He swung around and re-aimed at the slaver, who was on his knees with his hands raised. The world had gone quiet. "On your feet," Porter growled. "Keep your hands where I can see them." The man obeyed, and rose to his feet unsteadily. "Sit there." Porter pointed at a straight-backed chair in front of an old-fashioned writing desk. "Centre of the room." Again, the former slaver obeyed, and sat in the chair in the middle of the room. "If you move so much as an eyelash, you're dead." Porter backed away from him towards the girl, keeping his weapon trained on the man. He crouched and felt for a pulse, but he knew there wouldn't be one.

"What did you say to her?" Porter's voice was even and quiet. The man didn't say anything. "What did you say?"

"Said you would take her home. She didn't want to go."

"You son of a bitch." Porter's voice dropped back to normal. He looked down at the girl and revised her age downward to fourteen. Now, close up, he could see tiny punctures in her arms, mostly fresh, all clean and cared-for. Fuck. No wonder she hadn't wanted to go home. Most likely at home she would have-

Something crashed over the back of his head with a sickening thud. His vision flared white, but he kept consciousness. A second later he was face down on the carpet by the girl, and realised the splinters around him were from the straight-backed chair. He pushed himself up and back, trying to get clearance to raise the FN FAL. The slaver was standing over him with the one remaining chair leg, raising it for another blow. Blood was washing down Porter's face, stinging his left eye and making the world take on a reddish haze. When he fired, he aimed for the right shoulder. The man dropped the chair leg, howling in pain. Porter fired again, and this time the man's left knee exploded.

The slaver fell to the ground trying to clutch his wounded leg with his wounded arm, screaming when it didn't work. Porter walked over to stand above him, levelling the FN FAL at the man's head. "What was her name?"

Porter knew enough Arabic to recognise the word 'please'. The man was going to bleed out before too long, and Porter wasn't inclined to intervene.

"What was her name? The girl."

"...Neema."

Porter fired a third shot into the man, this time between the eyes.

* * *

The good thing about hired mercenaries, Porter reflected, was that once the person who paid them was dead, they usually just scattered. He left the main house to find the compound littered with bodies of fallen slavers. There was no sign of Layla or Masuku, so he made his careful way to the presumptive slave dormitory. He could hear Masuku talking quietly, a few crying children. He couldn't hear Layla. Porter whistled a signal so neither of them would shoot his arse off, then pulled the main door open.

The stink nearly drove him back. Unwashed children, unwashed latrines-those were bad enough, but beneath it all was a strong smell of blood. Too much blood.

Masuku was standing in the small entryway, holding on to two of the younger children, who were rubbing their eyes and crying.

"They're all dead," Porter said. "Where's Layla?"

Masuku didn't say anything. His face was still and blank.

Porter felt his insides twist and drop. "Where is she?"

"In there." Masuku nodded towards one of the doors. "Porter-"

He ignored him and pushed through the door. Layla was lying on one of the bunks, covered in a thin, ratty blanket. Her armor was off, and her uniform shirt. The t-shirt she wore underneath was a mass of deep red over her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow, but it was there. Josette hovered over her with a damp cloth, wiping away dried blood from Layla's neck and face. The girl looked so much older than she had the last time Porter at seen her, outside of Lake Lusiwasi. "How is she?" he asked.

Josette shook her head. "I don't know, Mister Porter. The bleeding's stopped. You're hurt too. Let me-"

"Did they have a doctor around for you, any of you?" Porter asked, moving to crouch at Layla's side. Her forehead was cool and clammy. Now, up close, he could see that Layla's shoulder was bandaged, albeit a trifle clumsily.

"No, sir," Josette said. When he wouldn't let her see to the scalp wound on his head, she handed him a clean damp cloth. "Just me. The Sisters taught me."

"She's in shock," Porter said, absently wiping the blood from his face. His head felt like a rotten tooth. "Was there an exit wound?"

Josette nodded. "Mister Felix said it looked clean."

One less thing to worry about, then. "We need better blankets. There are some in the main house." Porter touched Layla's still-short hair clumsily, then pushed to his feet.

"How is she?" Masuku asked, as soon as he came through the door.

"In shock," Porter said. "Unconscious. What happened?"

"The guards at the door here. She managed to take out the bastard that shot her." Masuku tried to smile at that, but it was little more than a twitch of his mouth. "The main house?"

"Clear. The boss is dead." They'd talk more about the size of the slaving ring later. "I'm going to go get supplies from the house." He walked away without saying anything else.

There were worse places to be shot than in the shoulder, as Porter well knew. Layla's breathing seemed all right, as near as he could tell. Between his Regiment training, and Masuku's, and whatever Josette had learnt from the nuns, they could probably stabilise her, but what then? She might still lose the arm, and she'd almost definitely get an infection. Death seemed the most probable outcome. It might even be a blessing. But Porter didn't have it in him to just stand aside and let it win-and he doubted Layla did either.

When he reached the master suite in the main house, Porter stripped the bed quickly. Flies were already starting to buzz around the two corpses in the room. After a moment's consideration, Porter pulled a sheet out of the bundle of linens he had, and carefully placed it over Neema's body. The cotton billowed down slowly, settling against the girl's scant body and sharp profile. She deserved better, but there was nothing else he could do right now. There were too many living people who needed attention.

The dormitory was quiet when Porter got back, and the entryway was empty. Instead of crying, he could hear a murmur of children's voices off in one of the other rooms. He went back into Layla's room and found Masuku there alone with her, sitting on the edge of the bunk. They didn't speak while Porter arranged the blankets over Layla, who seemed paler. The movement made her stir though, and she opened her eyes with a flutter of the lids. "The kids..."

"They're fine," Masuku said.

Porter forced a smile. "Mission accomplished, Lieutenant."

Layla closed her eyes again. "Good." She relaxed back against the thin pillow, going back under even before she had completely settled.

The two men watched her, two sets of eyes tracking breathing that was regular but much too shallow. After a few minutes, Porter tilted his head towards the door and walked out, Masuku following, favouring his left leg. Porter left the door cracked, but moved as much out of earshot as he could.

"It was my bloody fault," Masuku said. "She was coming to get me after my ankle gave out running across the courtyard."

"It's the fault of the bastard who shot her," Porter said. "And you said she took care of him." He glanced back towards the doorway to see if she was still unconscious. "How bad do you think it is?"

Masuku shook his head. "Missed her lung, and the subclavian artery. The bullet's not still in there. So not as bad as it could've been."

Porter thought about the series of surgeries he'd had after getting similarly shot in Iraq. "But bad enough," he concluded. "There's probably some medical supplies around here somewhere."

"She needs fluids," Masuku said.

"Yeah, I think an IV setup might be too much to hope for." Porter lowered his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "We might have company soon, if we stay here. They weren't just trading locally."

"How is that possible?"

Porter shrugged. "Before I shot him, the man in the house was promising English girls. Said they were trading around the world." Saying it out loud made a tight fist form around Porter's heart. There were probably plenty of girls in England, boys too, on their own because their parents were dead-or out of the country, or both-who'd be easy prey for the likes of the man he'd killed. Once the idea started to sink in, he knew he wouldn't be able to shake it. Collinson had said he had Lexi somewhere secure, but that was a year and a half ago. It was suddenly unbearable that another minute pass without knowing his daughter was safe.

"We'll handle it if so," Masuku was saying. "We can't go anywhere until Layla's back on her feet, and you said it yourself, this is as good a place as any to spend the end of the world." Neither of them said anything about the odds that Layla would ever get back on her feet.

As if thinking it had been enough, there came an alarming series of coughing gasps from Layla's room. Both men ran for the door.


	6. 5 January 2010 - 12 December 2010

**5 January 2010 - Cairo, Egypt**

Between rain showers, Masuku and a few of the older children were tending to the vegetable garden that grew where a flower garden used to be. They were nowhere near self-sufficient yet, but they were getting there.

The compound had become a refuge over the winter. Word got out that three British soldiers had turned out an entire army of mercenaries (the truth stretched, as these things always were), and everyone who felt in need of protection tried to come to their door. They were ruthless in their criteria for who got to come in. More than once in September and October, other local toughs wanted to test themselves against the foreign soldiers, and they'd been busy fending off one attempted attack after another. They found a few reinforcements in the form of other stranded soldiers in need of a chain of command and a place to stay. There were nearly a dozen adults now. Most of them lived in the old slave dormitories, now cleaned up.

Porter walked the perimeter several times a day, never on a regular schedule. His first stop was always the same, though, the sycamore tree by the wall, the one the three of them had climbed over back in August. He'd personally climbed it again and cut off all the branches that hung over the security wall. No one else would get in that way. At the base of the wall by the tree was where they'd started burying their dead. After two years of living in a world of Risen, always on the move, staying in one place long enough to have graves again was unsettling to Porter. He'd left so many bodies behind him, the idea of having them nearby seemed oddly pagan. Still, he came to pay his respects each day. He owed her that much.

He crouched beside the simple hand-lettered marker and wondered if he would ever stop feeling guilt over her death. That guilt was one of the reasons he had to leave Cairo, as soon as the rainy season was over and travel became more feasible.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Porter looked up and tightened his mouth into a poor excuse for a smile.

"You're still planning to leave, aren't you?" Layla asked. Her arm was still in a sling, although the wound to her shoulder had healed. She'd lost a lot of the function in her right hand, but Porter was showing her what he could remember of the physio he did after his own shoulder wound in 2003. As he'd predicted, they'd nearly lost her to shock first, then infection. She still wasn't as strong as she had been-physically, anyway. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was the one in charge of the compound.

"Yeah." Porter looked at the marker that read simply 'Neema', then rose to his feet and dusted off his trousers. He started to walk the compound perimeter again, turning to see if Layla would follow. When she did, he kept his pace slow enough that she could easily keep up.

"Do you really think you can find Lexi if you go back to England?"

They walked for several steps before Porter answered. "I have to try." They'd heard only whispers of the global slave trade since taking over the compound, but the idea of Lexi, now a teenager, being taken and shipped off and sold had fixed itself securely in his mind, and he couldn't shake it. Rarely did three days go by that he didn't dream of her. In his dreams, he'd seen her die, he'd seen her turn Risen, he'd seen her as a slave in any number of unsavoury circumstances.

Layla stopped him with a hand on his elbow. When he looked down at her, she said, "I'd go with you if I could."

"I know." That did make him smile, a little. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Things would fall apart here without you. The kids need you. Hell, I don't think he'd admit it, but Masuku needs you." The little bit of colour that rose in her cheeks at that was interesting enough for him to file away. "I'll be able to travel faster on my own anyway," he said.

"When will you go?"

"Soon," he said. "A few weeks."

"It'll be quiet around here when you're gone," she said, smiling a little. "We'll miss you."

"Ah, you'll forget me in a month," Porter said.

"No. That we won't." Layla laughed, then stopped walking and took his elbow. "Listen. I know it's a lot to ask, but my sisters... if you can find them, tell them where I am?"

"Yeah," he said. "Absolutely."

* * *

A month later he was walking away from the compound, the sound of children yelling goodbye echoing in his ears.

* * *

**12 December 2010-Czech-Austria Border**

Porter never thought he'd miss the desert the way he missed the desert right now. The winds had been brutal for days now. Even with decent winter gear, there was no escaping the dull, grinding cold. The winds did him a favour in one respect: the group he was following still had no idea he was there.

In the eleven months since he'd left Cairo, Porter had come across several small groups travelling together. Some had a specific destination-he'd heard an endless string of rumours that everything was back to normal in this country, or that country-and some were just looking for a good place to settle. Some were just on the move, like nomads following food sources.

This particular group he was following were singular in many respects.

They were all British. Most of the groups he'd run into since leaving Cairo were an amalgamation of survivors. On some level, most people realised that governments and borders didn't mean a whole lot anymore.

They were all clearly military. Their uniforms were dyed black, and all the insignias were stripped, but Porter recognised military discipline when he saw it. Different branches though, he thought. The older blond man who was the leader wasn't Royal Army. Neither were some of the others.

They were organised and well-supplied. He saw evidence of weapons discipline and no sign of hunger in their ranks. They made and broke camp each day with brutal efficiency, each person with their own assigned role, and it never varied.

Most importantly, they were going home. He didn't know if it was out of some rumour-driven notion that Great Britain was safe from harm, or out of a sense of duty, or if-like him-they had family and loved ones they wanted to find.

It had been nearly a year since Porter had left Cairo, and by all rights, he should have been in London long before this. He'd known that travelling alone would be dangerous, but he hadn't realised just how dangerous. He'd lost nearly two months over the summer after breaking his ankle in a stupidly avoidable fall. Just walking over uneven ground, of all bloody things. It drove home that a lot of his survival alone could be attributed to sheer blind stupid luck.

There really was safety in numbers.

This group could be exactly what he needed.

When they made camp for the night-the third since he'd started following them-Porter set up his own camp on a ridge overlooking them. If all continued to go well, he'd approach them tomorrow.

He ate a cold meal out of a can and watched as all fifteen of his new-found friends settled in for the night, either in tents or on guard duty. He knew he should try and rest, but he felt too keyed up to sleep. After an hour or two, the cold grew too biting, and he crawled into his own small tent, hoping to find what warmth he could, even if he didn't sleep.

He must have dozed. His first hint that anything had gone wrong was a low, snuffling growl that made the hair on his scalp stand up. That was a sound he hadn't heard in months-long enough that he thought he might have heard it for the last time. Porter sat up and unfastened one of the tent flaps. There was a... a swarm, a bloody swarm of Risen, and they were nearly on the unsuspecting camp. Where the fuck were the guards? In a ring of firelight below, he saw his answer: two enormous patches of crimson staining the dusting of snow. They'd been taken utterly by surprise, without a sound.

Porter scrambled out of the tent, hauling his boots on as he crawled, grabbing the FN FAL that had been his companion all the way from Zimbabwe. When he reached his feet, he fired it into the air-fuck the ammo-and screamed, "Wake up, get up you bastards!"

The camp exploded into activity. Men and women (there were a few of the latter) scrambled out of tents in time to see the approaching Risen. They were outnumbered at least two to one. Porter couldn't see well enough to count in the near-dawn darkness.

With his scream, several of the Risen and turned his way and were shambling up the ridge. Porter took them down easily. The pale snow on the ground made movement easy to track. He ran towards the camp, slipping part way down the hill. By the time he reached the camp, the battle had begun.

This was a group that had fought Risen before. They knew where to shoot, how to out-manoeuvre the slower bastards. They were reasonably well-armed. For all that though, the Risen had caught up in the deepest part of sleep, and more than a few of them were struggling, or already dead on the ground.

One, a tough-looking dark-haired woman, was fighting with a jammed AK-47 when one of the Risen grabbed her from behind and took a bite out of her carotid. She hadn't even hit the snow when one of the men launched himself, screaming, at the Risen. Shit. Porter followed. The man was out of his mind and completely forgetting the weapon in his hand, apparently intent on tearing the monster limb from limb. Before Porter could get there, the man was in a chokehold and about to be bitten himself, when a skinny kid came from out of nowhere and decapitated the Risen with a pair of flashing knives. The kid stopped just long enough to make sure his buddy had snapped out of it, then went on, a whirlwind of blood and death.

By the time it was over, the sun was rising, and there were ten humans left alive in the remains of the encampment. Porter found the other survivors checking the fallen, making sure they wouldn't Rise. Decapitation was the most effective means Porter had found-and apparently these people knew that too.

The man who'd nearly been bitten-blond, smaller than the leader-was cradling one of the corpses in his arms, the dark-haired woman with the AK. The man wasn't crying, or wailing, he was sitting stony-faced and still. Porter winced and looked at the other survivors, to see what they'd do.

The larger blond man - the one Porter had assumed was the leader - took a step towards them. "3C, there isn't much time - "

The smaller man, 3C, looked up with eyes gone hard. "You're not touching her."

"Mary would have wanted - " started the kid with the knives.

"You're not touching her."

The leader said, "If she Rises - "

"No." 3C's arms tightened around Mary's body. From where he stood, Porter could see that one of his hands twitched towards the SIG when the leader took a step. If something didn't shift soon, this was going to get even uglier.

"Hey," Porter said, in a tone he reserved for hostage victims and wayward children - soft-edged but in control. "3C, was it?" He flicked his eyes towards the leader, who gave a barely-there nod to continue. 3C was eyeing him with deep suspicion, his arms tightening. "I'm John. It's all right," Porter continued. "I'm not going to take her from you." Another step towards him. 3C's hand pulled away from his gun in a protective gesture towards the corpse.

Porter raised both his hands, palms open and forward. "It might not be necessary, what your friends are saying," he said. "I've seen it before. Sometimes... depends on how the bites look... sometimes the virus doesn't transmit." He took another step. 3C didn't flinch this time, but kept his eyes on Porter's face.

"I've never seen that," 3C said.

"Then you weren't paying attention." Porter took another step. "It comes down to whether they died of the bite or the virus." When 3C didn't challenge him, Porter took another step, bringing him within arm's-reach. "Let me look," he said, keeping that same reasonable, even tone. "And if you're right, then there's nothing to worry about. But if you're not..." He sank onto one knee next to 3C and the corpse. "How do you think she would feel if she knew first thing she did was to kill you?"

3C made a choked sound, and Porter saw some of the stone in his face crumble. He didn't resist when Porter reached out and carefully - so carefully - took the woman's body away from him, and laid her on the ground. They were almost out of the window of time before she Rose. He had to be quick. He made a fast show of examining her wounds, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, mate." He reached out and rested his hand on 3C's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Then he looked up at the leader, who took his cue and came and got 3C, lifting him to his feet.

"Come on, 3C." He looked from Porter to the corpse, his meaning clear. Porter nodded. When 3C's back turned, Porter picked up the corpse and carefully carried it out of 3C's line of sight.

He knelt behind an overturned Land Rover and pulled the hatchet from his belt. She'd been pretty. Now she wasn't anything. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and reached down to close her eyes. Then he laid a hand against her collarbone and raised the hatchet.

The woman's eyes flew open again and she opened her mouth to snarl. Porter brought the hatchet down before she could make any noise, severing the head. He was out of the worst of the spray, and stepped back when it was done to avoid the rest. The second time she died it was silent, and Porter was grateful, for 3C's sake.

* * *

After that, it felt like his decision was made for him. Names went around, such as they were: Seven, Cray, Shark, Mickey, Goldman, Drake, Andy, Switch, and 3C. Porter didn't question why someone might choose to go by an alias in this brave new world. He'd considered it, but what did he have to hide? Everyone that mattered knew the worst about him - or thought they did. He gave them his real name.

Seven and 3C had been serving together at the start of it all-Porter knew there was a story there, because no fucking way 3C was Royal Navy, and no fucking way Seven had been anything else. He was startled to learn that Cray, the skinny kid with the knives, had been SAS. It was hard to picture him going through basic training, much less the course at Hereford. Mickey, Goldman, and Drake were all Royal Marines, and had all the attitude Porter expected from that. That left Shark, Andy, and Switch. Shark and Andy had served together in South Africa. It took Porter all of five minutes to see that Shark was head over heels in love with Andy, and that she didn't return the sentiment. Tough break, especially with there being new meaning to the phrase "not if you were the last man on earth." Switch was the quiet one, and Porter couldn't quite figure her out.

The lot of them were walking down both sides of a cracked two-lane highway when Cray caught him up. He'd expected Cray to approach him, on hearing that Cray was Regiment as well.

"You were lying to 3C about Mary, weren't you?" Cray asked quietly.

"Have you ever seen someone get bit and not turn?" Porter waited to see if he needed to go on the defencive.

"3C's normally got a clearer head than that," said Cray.

Porter unslung his canteen and took a drink of brackish water. He offered it to Cray, who took it and drank. "Grief does funny things," Porter said. "He would have come around when she started snarling." He took the canteen back and reslung it. "In the meantime, he was thinking a little too hard about reaching for his pistol."

"Shit," said Cray. They walked in silence for several metres, then he said, "I know your name."

Porter wasn't surprised. Masuku had said as much too. That was who Sergeant John Porter had been in the old world: an object lesson for new trainees on what not to do. He didn't say anything.

"You did the right thing, not killing that kid," Cray said.

"That's an easy thing to say," Porter said. "It's not as easy when it's your mates getting killed."

"You did the right thing," Cray repeated. Something in his tone made Porter look twice at him. Maybe this wasn't a kid after all.

They walked on in silence for a bit. "Tell me something," Porter said. "You lot, why are you all using aliases?"

"The real question is, why aren't you?" Cray shrugged. "What we were doesn't matter anymore. Nothing in the past matters anymore."

Spoken like someone who'd lost everything there was to lose, Porter thought. He wasn't certain if he wished he could agree with the kid, or if he felt sorry for him.

Either way, he knew the past would be waiting for him in London.

He hoped. Oh god, he hoped.


End file.
